


Gargantuan Courgette

by recreational



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Large Cock, M/M, One Shot, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-28 00:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recreational/pseuds/recreational
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A botanical detour provides John with too much information about Sherlock. Far too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gargantuan Courgette

**Author's Note:**

> For lovely CrackshotKate, who inspired this story and accepted it as my gift to her. And who betad it above all :)

“We shouldn’t be here, John,” Sherlock hissed.

“Now give me a minute to pay this lady and then you have my undivided attention.” John fished another fiver out of his wallet and handed it to the woman behind the makeshift counter. She beamed him a smile.

“Enjoy your visit,” she chirped. “And don’t forget to visit our little shop. This morning, the most beautiful lavender arrived.”

“Yes… thanks.” His patience already waning, John threw Sherlock a dark look, daring him not to follow him through the arch of wisteria and roses that marked the entrance. Glancing around warily, the detective finally overcame his internal opposition.

“ _You_ said we had to follow this lead no matter what,” John ground out. “When Lestrade hinted at the possible connection to this firm, _you_ jumped at the chance to find out about it, especially as it exceeded his jurisdiction and his hands were tied.”

“But we’re outside the M25!” Sherlock whined. “And this is a gardening exhibition,” he added conspiratorially.

“I know, I bought the tickets, remember?” He waved the pink slips of paper at Sherlock who scrunched up his nose in disgust. “Now stop acting like you’ve been abandoned on an alien planet and get on with your investigation. The sooner you find something, the sooner we can leave.”

Sherlock gave a start when a group of elderly woman passed by, bursting out in cries of joy at a patch of begonia.

“I can’t work here,” he scoffed. “Every sensible thought is smothered by this idle chit chat.”

“Okay, you know what? I’ll do the work,” John said and heaved a sigh. He got out the little map he had received at the entrance and unfolded it. “Straight on we find trees, on the left there are flowers, and yes, there are the fertilisers as well.” 

Not waiting for Sherlock, he marched through the area and only stopped when he had reached his aim. The information booths of the different fertiliser firms didn’t attract a lot of visitors, so the scrunching gravel behind him and a hint of the aftershave he could recognise in a million told him that Sherlock had arrived as well.

“It’s not him.”

John turned around. “How do you–?”

“Do I really have to explain it to you?” Sherlock asked impatiently and John shook his head. The lecture wouldn’t have been that imposing anyway, John thought and stifled a grin, not with an animated sales talk on the advantages of guano going on next to them.

“Can we leave now?”

“Sherlock, you know the train timetable. If we go now, we’ll have to wait for half an hour before the next one.”

“A definite improvement to staying here.”

“I paid fifteen pounds for us to get in,” John stated with what he hoped was enough self-confidence. “I want something for my money. Something more than ‘It’s not him’. I don’t care how you do it, but you’re going for a little walk through this exhibition with me. Imagine killing each and every plant in it if you have to.”

Going by the look, Sherlock was rather imagining killing him, but John braved the hostility and forced a good-natured smile on his face.

“But no flowers,” Sherlock growled and John glanced at the map again to make sure they’d end up in the tree section. The concentration of visitors thinned marginally towards that area, enough to appease Sherlock to a degree, it seemed.

John breathed in deeply. “I could use a break now and then from the city’s hustle. Maybe we should–“

“Well, if it isn’t the rebellious prodigy in person,” a deep voice called from behind them.

Simultaneously they whipped around and before he could even begin to process what was going on, John witnessed Sherlock Holmes letting himself be embraced by a stranger in work clothes. Not that he reciprocated, but still. 

“Tom.” Was that a twinkle in Sherlock’s eyes?

“Of all the people I would have expected here.” The broad-shouldered hulk gave Sherlock a wide smile and finally let go of him. “What on earth are you doing in a place like this? No, wait! You’re investigating a case, aren’t you?”

Sherlock shrugged and raised a suggestive eyebrow, making the other man laugh out loud.

“Oh yeah, still the old mystery-monger. Isn’t he a riot, the old Lock?” he asked John and extended his hand.

“John, this is Tom. Tom – Dr John Watson,” Sherlock introduced them and fortunately made it unnecessary to answer the question. Torn between getting worked up over Tom’s blatant familiarity on the one hand and the fascination with the undeniable attractiveness of Sherlock’s acquaintance on the other, John just nodded. How was it even possible for a man to have dimples like that? 

“I’ve seen you in the papers, John. You’re quite the celebrities, the two of you. But that’s hardly surprising.” He snickered. “Brown never came back, did you know that?” he asked Sherlock.

“He was an amateur,” Sherlock answered with a grin. “Someone had to expose him.”

“But in front of an audience of three hundred?” Tom asked, and he and Sherlock grunted in unison.

“I didn’t force him to cry in the dean’s office.”

“Or in the men’s lavatory,” Tom continued and John felt his teeth grinding when the handsome gardener grabbed Sherlock’s upper arm to keep himself from doubling over through laughing so hard.

“He teaches in the States now. Community college, from what I’ve heard,” he wheezed and Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t make a move to free himself.

John cleared his throat. “I take it you met at university?” he asked when Tom had calmed down and even sobered enough to release Sherlock’s arm.

“Sorry for the outburst,” Tom said and directed another of those infectious grins at him. “You know our Lock, always good for some mayhem. Yes, we were both studying business administration.”

“What?” John was sure that he must have misheard.

“A great semester.” Tom cocked his head and seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. “It was also good when it was over,” he said after snapping out of his musings.

“I didn’t know you studied business administration.” John threw Sherlock a questioning look, but he seemed to be unimpressed by his astonishment.

“For a semester.”

“One hell of a semester,” Tom added wistfully and John didn’t like Sherlock’s smirk at the remark. Only after the detective had given the man a quick once-over and the look turned scornful was John able to rein in his aggravation. _Stay calm,_ he reprimanded himself, _you’ve managed for a year now._

“So, plants?” Sherlock asked with enough condescension in his voice that even Tom must have heard it, but the man ignored it and instead slapped Sherlock on the back.

“Wasn’t it clear that I’d never end up behind a desk? The chances of meeting more bastards like you were far too high.” He huffed out a laugh and turned to John. “Don’t worry, we know that Sherlock’s one of the good guys, don’t we? He just hides it very well.”

Was that a wink? John’s confusion became even more pronounced when he saw Tom enfolding Sherlock in a hug again.

“Good you finally met someone,” Tom said. “Well, I’ve quite a successful nursery garden in Staplehurst, if you two want to come by one day…”

That seemed to have been the cue for Sherlock to disengage himself.

“I think it’s time for us to go. We have a train to catch.” Abruptly, he turned around and vanished behind a hedge of cherry laurel.

“You’ve got my respect, pal. Don’t know how you do it.” John took Tom’s outstretched hand and was surprised to feel it clutching his firmly.

“Do what?” John asked, bewildered.

“You know…” Tom said with a grin and drew John closer to whisper in his ear. “Quite a gargantuan courgette, our man Sherlock.”

Another squeeze of the hand and one of the shoulder on top of it, then Tom let go of the speechless man he had so profusely bid goodbye to. He grabbed the rake that was leaning against the shrubs and purposefully walked away.

John’s feet carried him in the direction Sherlock had disappeared, meandering around the other visitors more or less successfully.

“What took you so long?” He heard the voice and his eyes relayed the sight of the familiar woollen coat to his brain, but John couldn’t process it. “Were you talking? About what?”

What indeed? The details were somewhat sketchy because all John could think about was the gist of those casual remarks, stirring up a rather unhealthy dose of anger he could barely contain.

“You… you're…?” he started and Sherlock looked at him in the fashion that could mean everything from ‘you idiot’ to ‘let’s have tea’, as nondescript as the expression was, and it made John even more irate.

“A former student of economics? Gay?” Sherlock asked and made several permed ladies passing them turn in surprise. 

“Seriously?” John blurted out, unable to control the shrillness of his voice, but the sound finally seemed to spur Sherlock on to do something. He reached out to grab John’s jacket and pulled him behind a screen fence a little down the way.

“And this is news why exactly?” he whispered insistently.

“I... you...” John stuttered, unable to form proper sentences for reasons he couldn’t quite comprehend. Yet he _had_ to say something at a revelation so outrageous.

“You told me that it was ‘fine’ if I remember correctly,” Sherlock said, his words just slightly mocking.

“Yes, but–?”

“Now what?” Sherlock interrupted him. “All of this because Tom told you I’m gay?”

“No, actually...” John started but then paused. How could Tom know…?

“You were together?” he cried. Could everything become even more ludicrous? John shook his head in disbelief.

“If a weekend counts,” Sherlock answered noncommittally and squinted his eyes. “Going by your frequency last year, it does.”

John took a moment to glower at Sherlock, who obviously chose to interpret his silence as the end of their conversation.

“That’s it then?” he asked, but it rather sounded like a call to leave. Casting down his eyes, John hoped he was able to hide his embarrassment when he tried to suppress the rest of Tom’s account.

“Erm, yes.”

He saw Sherlock turning on his heels and dared to raise his head again. “Good,” the detective said, stepping out from behind the screen. “Discussing such issues next to a compost heap makes the whole topic rather shady.”

A glance back told John that his mind had been too occupied with recent insights to pay attention to their surroundings. Quickly escaping the smell, he followed Sherlock down the gravelly trail, surprised at his unhurried pace.

Thankful that he wasn’t compelled to break into a jog all the time, John tried to take his mind off the situation. He wasn’t going to think about the implications of what he’d just heard, especially not when trapped in a scenery of Sherlock, lush green and beige windbreakers.

Training his eyes on the plants, he was grimly determined to get some enjoyment out of their excursion after all. Trimmed boxwood was good, John decided, very calming, and geometrical shapes were not challenging to the eye. After a couple of yards, the shrubs gave way to vegetable patches and John threw a cursory glance at the small signs indicating the plantlets names. Without really noticing it, he grunted out a laugh.

“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock’s voice. And Sherlock’s eyes – John could practically feel them boring into his back.

“Nothing,” John said quickly and knew that his acting skills had failed him again. Sherlock grabbing him by his jacket, dragging him back to the screen fence whose cover they had left not long ago was only a formality after that. This time, the compost’s stench immediately attacked all his senses and almost made his stomach turn.

“I don’t like to be kept in the dark.” The accusing gaze ruined John’s attempt at a steady look. “And if it becomes necessary, I can begin deducing what’s going on. It would be a pity though, because out of respect for your privacy I’ve tried to stop that.”

“You have?” John asked. “That’s... nice, actually.”

In contrast to what John had expected, this comment provoked Sherlock even more. “Don’t digress,” he seethed and John briefly considered taking the only escape route through the compost, but for the sake of his shoes he steeled himself.

“Can’t I tell you with less flies buzzing around us?” he asked with a frown. “Let’s go home.”

“This isn’t over,” Sherlock mumbled, but grudgingly he stepped to the side to let John pass, only to overtake him on the main path, outpacing him with long strides.

Slightly out of breath, John was happy to arrive at the station a little later. They had to wait for another fifteen minutes, but standing on the platform turned out to be a lot less uncomfortable than the train ride, Sherlock levelling a penetrating look at him that John was sure could burn a hole into the seat. He debated over trying to initiate a conversation but scrapped that idea. The detective was obviously keen on playing mind games, so trying to direct his energy somewhere else was futile.

Despite his awareness of those strategies, John couldn’t help getting apprehensive. He _had_ promised to tell Sherlock  about the events in the garden and no matter how much he racked his brain, he couldn’t think of a convincing lie. And above all, Sherlock was gay!

John felt his eyebrows furrow. He had wasted so much time! How dare Sherlock casually gloss over something like that? John’s anger was a fitting way to keep up with the other man’s dark face and glowering at each other, they managed to remain at stalemate until the train entered Charing Cross. Then Sherlock all but kicked him out of the carriage and pulled him along the platform like a bulky holdall. John was thankful for the station’s employee holding the disabled exit open – Sherlock manhandling him through one of the turnstiles would have ended unfavourably for his abdomen.

In the taxi, he was at least safe from physical attacks, disregarding the fact that Sherlock looked like he was almost exploding with curiosity, but once they arrived in Baker Street, the abuse continued seamlessly.

“I’m going to grab something from the café,” John said when Sherlock pushed him out of the taxi.

“No!” the detective barked and threw the cabbie a note John couldn’t identify. He dragged him across the street and John stumbled over the kerb, barely able to stay on his feet.

“Sherlock! What the heck...?” he shouted when they had reached the door. The detective stopped dead in his tracks and let go of the jacket, but John couldn’t place his suddenly expectant face.

“Now what are we waiting for?” John asked.

“For you to open the door,” Sherlock explained. “I seem to have misplaced my keys.”

John unlocked the main entrance and they entered the hallway. “You have? Where? At the show?”

“No, over a month ago,” Sherlock answered when they climbed the steps.

“A month?” John opened the door to their flat. “You mean every time you made me get up in the middle of the–”

John’s back collided with the wall, painfully making him aware of the fact that he had let himself be lulled into a false sense of security.

“What! Is. It?”

Like before, John immediately felt his ability to speak fail him again. The fact that Sherlock seemed to take this confrontation as an excuse to overstep every boundary regarding personal space didn’t help either, and to prevent unwanted reactions that would demand even more explanation, John opted for the offensive as the fastest way to end this.

“It was because there was a sign with ‘courgette’ on it,” he pressed out, more to Sherlock’s coat than to him.

“You could at least come up with something believable.”

“It’s ridiculous, but it’s the truth,” John said and looked Sherlock in the eye. “When I saw the sign at the patch I laughed because it reminded me of what Tom said.”

“All of this because you had a conversation about vegetables?” Sherlock’s expression alternated between fury and exasperation.

“Not in the plural, rather one... special vegetable.” John desperately searched for a way to end the terrible metaphor. “Yours to be precise.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “You talked about my penis?”

John noted that he wasn’t being pushed into the wall with such vehemence any more but if anything, Sherlock’s demeanour had become even more intimidating in the light of the latest revelations. 

“Not exactly,” John tried to appease him. “He just happened to mention it... or rather its size.”

As if he had developed a spontaneous allergy, Sherlock let go of John’s jacket, and without another word, he turned away and headed to his room. 

“Come on, it was just a silly remark,” John said, following him. “I’ll make some tea and we can forget the whole thing.”

Something was wrong. Sherlock’s look before he turned to go and the pinched lips now were telling enough. Self-consciousness was a rare sight, and apart from the fact that it didn’t fit the other man, it unsettled John considerably. This was a can of worms he had to close right away.

“Get out of your coat and sit down, I’ll be back with the tea,” he coaxed him and was relieved that, after some hesitation, Sherlock acquiesced silently. He threw the coat on the sofa and plunked into the chair whilst John went through the motions of tea preparation - not just once but even a second time after he had inadvertently grabbed the camomile.

“Now what do you think?” John asked, handing Sherlock the mug. “Sevenoaks was a dead end, but you surely have another lead, right?”

He sat down in the armchair, balancing his cup.

“It’s a nuisance,” Sherlock said through clenched teeth, causing John to spill his tea after all.

“Why?” he asked. Sherlock’s jaws were working visibly, and John mentally sorted the details of the preceding days for anything suspicious. “You’ve never talked like that about a case.”

“I’m not talking about _The Work_ , John,” Sherlock said pointedly, sticking out the embarrassed silence with a stony face, but John couldn’t think of a way to react, not for the life of him.

“It makes people stare,” Sherlock went on. “I’m not that vain, John, I don’t wear tailored suits because I think they’re a prerequisite to solving cases. I need them to hide it. And it takes a lot of measuring to achieve that.”

Suits. John jumped at the opportunity to change the topic. “Well, at least they–”

“It’s humiliating to have more time spent measuring your crotch than your entire body.” Sherlock stared into his cup.

“Then it’s obviously not true what they say about size. The world should be warned,” John said to lighten the mood, but Sherlock just continued studying the tea with unfocused eyes.

“Size matters, that much is true.”

At least he took a sip after the last statement and it perked him up a little – yet not in the way John had hoped. The frown forming on his forehead sparked new fear of which carefully omitted aspect of their conversation Sherlock had now pinpointed.

“Why did Tom see the necessity to mention it at all?”

John groaned inwardly. Of course it would be that.

“Well, erm, he seemed to have been under the misconception that we were a couple and he... congratulated me somehow.” For a moment, Sherlock’s penetrating gaze lost some of its fierceness, and John exhaled.

“That doesn’t sound like Tom,” Sherlock declared and John froze. So it had to be the ruddy truth after all.

“For being able to cope with your... appendage.” God, how old was he?

“Aha,” Sherlock said, his almost sad look convincing John that it was about time to stop the hedging and call a spade a spade, but to be on the safe side, he put his cup on the floor, in case his nerves got the better of him.

“Sherlock, it can’t be that bad, I’ve seen a good deal of penises, and not just as a doctor or in the army.” _There_ , John thought to himself, _that should give you a lead_. “All of them, even the bigger ones, didn’t appear to be downright life-destructing.”

“Surely the other twelve per cent of the population with the problem were among them,” Sherlock mocked derisively.

“It’s just a penis,” John exclaimed, “not a problem!”

“It is!” John briefly thought that Sherlock should have gotten rid of his cup as well, as precariously as he balanced it now on one hand, the other one gesticulating wildly. “It ruined whatever rudimentary sex life I had, reducing it to certain practices – if prospective partners stayed at all after the first glance.”

“That’s... I’m sorry.”

“Until one day I just gave up,” Sherlock continued.

“Gave up sex you mean?” John couldn’t believe the nonchalance with which Sherlock sipped on his tea after he had nodded. “No, you didn’t. That can’t be the reason.”

Could it? Before he was able to direct his eyes elsewhere, they had inconspicuously strayed to Sherlock’s crotch to ogle it for the fraction of a second. When they returned to Sherlock’s face though, they were received with the most furious glare John had ever been confronted with.

“Wait here. I’ll call for you,” Sherlock ground out, and the mug even survived Sherlock carelessly placing it on the coffee table before he stomped away. The shower was turned on and John checked his watch. Seven pm. Sherlock often showered around seven, so this didn’t have to mean anything.

He collected the dishes and put them in the sink, contemplating them briefly before he arrived at the conclusion that he would be better off doing the washing-up immediately. Everything was better than thinking about Sherlock in the shower, or worse, what he would possibly do afterwards.

“John!”

Clinging to the dishes as a first reaction, John forced himself to turn off the tap and face the music, but when he entered the bathroom, the display waiting for him exceeded his worst fears by far. He had expected some kind of presentation, a dressing gown opened to allow a peek, something of that sort.

Sherlock stark naked towelling himself had definitely not been one of the scenarios. Panic-stricken, John tried to give his eyes an inconspicuous target but they insisted on pale skin. Barely able to keep them looking straight ahead, he let himself be hypnotised by the movements of the pectorals.

“Stop staring at my chest, this is not why I brought you here!” Sherlock barked. _Right_ , John reminded himself, and allowed his eyes to trail down the lean body, the stomach just hinting at the strength that was hidden there, abdominal muscles only defined enough to...

John’s breath hitched. His gaze had reached the dark nest of curls, or rather a sparse ring as he should call it because sticking out in the middle was the penis that definitely earned its nickname. Extraordinarily thick to begin with, it was longer than average as well, and although Sherlock wasn’t circumcised, the foreskin seemed to be too small for what it contained.

“O-kay,” John began and searched for his neutral doctor’s voice. “It’s certainly big but not necessarily frighteningly so. I read about a man–”

“I don’t care about the poor chap who ended up with the world record,” Sherlock spat and reached for his dressing gown. “This is a tool and it doesn’t fit.”

“It’s not that disproportionate,” John remarked. “You are tall.”

Sherlock tied the belt into a knot so tight that John suspected it could only be cut open again.  “The state it’s in doesn’t give you an exact idea, I’m afraid.”

“But I’m sure with the right amount of preparation of your... partner, this–”

“Believe me,” Sherlock interrupted him and left the room, “you have no accurate representation.”

Briefly John was deterred by the door slammed in his face, his doubts immobilising the hand that had instinctively grabbed the door handle.

“This is not the time for second thoughts, damn it,” he swore and tore the door open. He even managed to catch up with Sherlock before he had the chance to lock himself in in his bedroom.

“Then show me!” he blurted out, and Sherlock remained in the crack of the door. “The... the state of arousal, and then we’ll talk again. If this really influences your life so much, you should try to find ways to deal with it. Maybe I can help you. I’m a doctor, lest you forget,” he rambled. _Great, John, that will solve his problem,_ he cursed inwardly.

Sherlock appeared to be just as sceptical, yet his quizzical look made way for a noncommittal shrug, its implication creating an instinctive urge to bolt in John.

“Whenever you’re... ready.” He quickly returned to the living room, opened the laptop and waited for the operating system to load. Yet at the typing of his password, Sherlock was already calling his name.

Why on earth had he switched on the computer? He stared at the blue screen and tried to understand what was going on in his mind. A blog entry? Seriously? _11 May, The Case of the Hidden Snake. Examining the evidence lies in the hands of Dr John Watson._

John snorted and got up. It was now or never, if he didn’t play his cards right, this unforeseen opportunity would pass and he would be exactly where he had been in the last year.

Tentatively he opened the door and peeked inside. He had expected him sitting in the chair or standing, but Sherlock sat on the bed, still in his dressing gown. He glared down at his crotch and even from his place by the door, John could see the tip of the penis. Each step he took, it became more visible, making it impossible not to marvel at the way it protruded from its root. A fleeting feeling of envy flashed through John’s mind together with a sense of inferiority, but they were almost instantly eclipsed by fascination at the sheer size.

“It’s always the same,” Sherlock said, causing John to look in his face for the first time since he had come into the room. “At the beginning they’re in awe, quickly followed by a sudden goodbye.”

“It’s massive,” John admitted to hide the embarrassment at his outright staring. “But you can reach this state rather quickly, so... there is nothing wrong with its... its function. That’s good, I think.”

The erection really hadn’t flagged in the least despite the exposure and John sat down on edge of the bed to have a closer look. Already on the verge of reaching out, he could just about keep himself from touching it.

“Go ahead, you’re a doctor after all.” The voice sounded rather disinterested, making it easy for John’s mind to persuade him that this was just a medical examination.

 _Okay, doctor – someone whose fingers don’t tremble,_ he reminded himself. Astonished by his almost diminutive hand in relation to the penis, he tried to hide his slightly sweaty skin by just using three fingertips to squeeze a little. It was unbelievable. With so much rigid tissue, it felt like an organism of its own, twitching imperceptibly, the bulbous head a smooth crown that…  

John cleared his throat and reined in his rapture with some difficulty. “Well, it’s not too big to be able to achieve a complete erection. You should be happy about that.”

“It’s an oversized club.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I didn’t,” Sherlock ground out. “Tom did after we had intercourse.”

“What an idiot.” This Tom guy was becoming less and less sympathetic, John thought to himself.

“But he was right.” Sherlock breathed in deeply. “At least he allowed us to switch positions. No one else had done so before. Or afterwaa... John!”

“What?”

“Hand!” was all Sherlock managed to say before he banged his head against the headrest and a strangled sound escaped him.

Confused, John looked down. His fingers had automatically encircled the length they had been touching and with the same casualness, they had started to rub it slightly. His brain tried to override those instinctive movements but John found that it couldn’t. _And hadn’t I told myself to risk something before it was too late?_ he reminded himself.

“Oh sorry, just when I’m touching someone’s erection it’s not usually to examine it,” he said as matter-of-factly as he could.

“You what...?” At least in a situation like that, his bloody eloquence left him, John noted with some satisfaction.

“Jerk someone off.” The foreskin really didn’t fit anymore now that the cock had reached its final dimensions and John wished he had something to lubricate his fingers with. Wait, he did. And while he was at it...

“Careful,” Sherlock rasped but John ignored him. He didn’t look as if he was suffering from the treatment.

“You know what? Let’s try it out. With some precaution it should work.”

“What would...?” Sherlock’s voice was only able to form an indistinct moan afterwards.

“This cock of yours. In me.” John grinned. Overcoming his bashfulness to say the words had definitely been worth it. He could get used to the sight of wide-eyed Sherlock, gasping for air while he was writhing under his touch. And above all, Sherlock wasn’t bolting from the room, or appealing to him to stop, John noted with increasing excitement.

“No… condom...” he gasped and John’s breath caught. _Easy, don’t muck this up,_ he told himself. Best keep things technical.

“Mmh, none of mine would fit,” he admitted. “I’m pretty sure of that. Ah, well, I’m clean and you gave up sex a good while ago. I think it’s okay to risk it.”

“But… you...”

After the trying day, it felt so good to have him stuttering and squirming, John thought to himself, but a deep groan brought him back to reality. Reluctantly, he let go of the penis.

“Right, I’ll get prepared.”

He jumped up and beat a hectic retreat, taking two steps at a time upstairs. What if Sherlock came to his senses and protested?

Lube – he could forget about the whole thing without it, but where was the damn stuff? Frantically, he searched his bedside table and wardrobe, but found it among his briefs in the end. He grabbed a dressing gown and all but ran downstairs to the bathroom.

 _Now think, John, did that coffee you had before you left for Sevenoaks do its job?_ There was no way he could use the chemical enema he had stored somewhere – this was definitely not the moment to activate his colon.

Sherlock’s impatient face, the coat, the door. Mentally, John ticked off this item on his list. Now what? If he was at St Barts, he might be tempted to apply a muscle relaxant, but household remedies had to do for now. He rid himself of his clothes and stepped under the shower, enduring the cold water until it became gradually warmer. The heat would help to slacken off the muscles and he turned it up as much as he could bear it.

Some of the tension was already released at the calming sound of the spray. John sighed. If someone had told him in the morning that he was going to have sex with Sherlock later that day, he would have never believed it. Sex with Sherlock! His mind did a little dance at the thought. At bloody long last!

His already half-hard cock showed him that his own arousal wouldn’t be a problem, and he foamed up some shower gel to pump his length experimentally, instantly feeling it growing in his hand. Oh yes, there was plenty of that.

And what would Sherlock be doing right now? The same? John allowed his thoughts to stray to that exceptional penis, now encircled by Sherlock’s slender hand. What would be the look on his face when pleasure cancelled out all of the aloofness?

Telltale sensations swarmed out in John’s abdomen, simultaneously activating a multitude of warning signals. He clenched his teeth and stopped, applying more of the gel on his hand after he had forced it to let go of his erection.

Sherlock wanking was a useful image, he should follow that path, but he had to focus on the target. Cautiously, he slipped a finger inside his rectum and was relieved not to find too much resistance. _Be mindful of the speed,_ he warned himself, although at the same time he had the nagging feeling that he should return to the bedroom as soon as possible.

Hurriedly, he climbed out of the tub to retrieve the lube from his bathrobe and only by holding on to the shower curtain could he avoid slipping. After dropping the tube twice, he became finally convinced that if Sherlock had got the jitters like he had, they would be in for some trouble.

Silencing his concerns, he focused again and propped a leg up on the edge of the tub. Thanks to the lube he dared to start with two fingers this time, twisting them a little too quickly add a third.

The angle was awkward and an unchecked movement washed the lube off, but John reckoned that he should leave the bathroom anyway. He briefly turned the water from hot to scalding and then dried himself off, contemplating his next steps.

First things first. Naked? Dressing gown? Dressing gown. Yet already the simple act of pocketing the lube let his pulse go frantic, making it necessary to support himself on the sink.

“Okay, John, it’s been a while, but you can do this,” he told himself, although the outlook would be more encouraging if he didn’t feel like he was attempting to climb a mountain with just his iron will, barefooted above all.

“This is it then. No fantasy, no daydream. This is real. Now get a grip,” he encouraged his reflection in the mirror.

He had no difficulties imagining how Sherlock’s other sexual partners had felt – none at all. _You didn’t become a soldier because you held the well-being of your body in such high regard,_ he ranted inwardly. _There is nothing that can’t be fixed again._

At least to a degree.

He swallowed and left the bathroom, reminding himself that there was no way he could show doubt or fear because that would ruin everything irretrievably. For both of them. So he squared his shoulders and stepped into Sherlock’s room, attempting a firm voice and succeeding for a change.

“Now show me what that monstrous member of yours can do.”

He beamed Sherlock an optimistic smile, but the fact that the detective looked like he wanted to flee after obviously spending John’s absence pacing, wasn’t very promising.

“Or we can stand around in bathrobes and have a jolly good time without pesky skin contact and all that penetration,” John added, relieved that Sherlock couldn’t suppress a tiny quirk.

“Look, John, you don’t really have to–”

“Are you serious?” John growled. “After I got ready to mount that allegedly unconquerable peak, you want to send me away?”

“No!” Sherlock said quickly. “That was not what I meant. You just don’t have to prove anything. If you want to, we can do... different things.”

He saw him breathing in, the posture strangely rigid but the tiniest of smiles on his lips, and a notion gently tugged at John, whispering that this was the sign he had been hoping for in the last year – if it hadn’t been for the anger that still clung to him like a burr since that afternoon.

“Don’t think you can make me waste my time with dates and then promise me cock just to back down again,” he snarled, enjoying Sherlock’s open surprise. John stepped forward, exposing himself to a whiff of shower gel and _Sherlock_ so appealing that he was tempted to bury his nose in the neckline of the dressing gown.

“See these fingers?” He waved his hand. “Where they just were, your cock is going to go, understood?”

A myriad of emotions played on Sherlock’s face, all of them too vague to capture, but when they settled for ‘I’m going to devour you whole’, John’s courage bunked off in a heartbeat. He felt a hand in his pocket stealing the tube, and his dressing gown disappeared so quickly that he doubted he had even been touched, but those were fleeting impressions, cancelled out when he landed face first in the pillow. Before he could digest the fact that spread out like that, he must be a rather ridiculous sight, Sherlock had clutched his hips to pull him up and… _That’s new,_ John thought, but then all reasoning fled his mind when the tongue that traced the puckered skin of his sphincter dove down and breached the muscle.

“Definitely… different,” John gasped and inwardly mourned the loss of the wriggling invasion when Sherlock drew back. 

“You have to relax completely. I don’t tolerate pain,” he heard Sherlock’s baritone mumble. A hand grabbed the pillow from underneath his head and stuffed it under his belly, followed by the quilt. Impatiently Sherlock pushed him into the soft heap, making the feeling of awkwardness soar for a brief moment, only to let it die down just as quickly.

The tongue caressing his entrance masked every discomfort the hands could have elicited. They spread his legs even wider and grabbed his arse to fix it with a firm grip, but the warm muscle massaged every last trace of doubt out of him, probing the channel with its tentative strokes until John’s head started to swim. He didn’t want to let go of the addictive heat, but the fingers that took over found their aim so purposefully that he moaned his agreement in an instant.

Unable to check the movements of his hip, he searched for more contact, had to get those fingers into him deeper, increase the friction of his cock rubbing against the covers. Readily, the digits penetrating him complied, scissoring and stretching him, making room for the third and eventually the fourth.

John pressed his forehead into the mattress and clenched his fists to release some of the energy that pooled in his groin, but it just became more deliciously unbearable, driving him to perish in brilliant, mind-boggling fireworks so fiercely that he could almost taste them. 

“Please...” he begged and the fingers in him stilled.

“Do you trust me?” Sherlock whispered.

“Yes... yes, of course,” John heard himself babbling. Eternally grateful that the strong hands were back again, digging into the flesh of his hips to pull them back and hold him steady, he nevertheless closed his eyes when he felt the blunt head of the cock slip through his sphincter. _Don’t worry, he won’t hurt you,_ he told himself, and inch after inch, Sherlock pushed forward.

John clung to the raving need that had coursed through him before and let the feeling of fullness that was bordering too much be masked by the phenomenal sensation of every damn place in him being stimulated, every nerve ending firing incessantly. Cautiously, Sherlock started to move, minute strokes that saw John floating on white water, his mind overloaded and his body hopelessly carried along in the arousal flooding him.

“Sherlock, I…” he rasped, feeling the unique stimulus of his prostate ripping the last vestiges of control from him, and he relinquished it to the fingers that suddenly encircled his cock to set a slick yet brutal pace. They catapulted him over the edge with such force that the spasms robbed him of the ability to support his weight, but the hand drawing out his spurts let go abruptly, clutching his trembling body.

He didn’t sink in to the hilt, John was sure of that and braved the few shoves Sherlock needed to come. Believing that he could feel the semen filling him deep inside, John let himself be rocked until the choking of Sherlock’s voice finally became discernible. _Fuck yes,_ John rejoiced inwardly, _my name should’ve been your mantra for the whole year!_

Still catching his breath, Sherlock carefully pulled out of John who took this as his cue to collapse on the bed. He kicked the cover off the mattress and even managed to hide the wince when he rolled over to face Sherlock. Oh yes, this bed was going to be one sticky mess of body fluids, John thought and grinned at the sweaty sight of his flatmate. Served Sherlock right for glossing over the fact the he was gay, damn it!

“From now on, a couple of things should be clear,” John said and couldn’t help appreciating Sherlock’s apprehensive look. “The next time we do this–” Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but John threw him a warning frown. “…And there will be a next time – I’ll bring some things from St Barts that might facilitate everything a bit better.”

The worry line on Sherlock’s forehead gradually disappeared, making way for a guarded smile. “What else?”

“Well,” John drawled. “How about we take a shower? And you’ll use some mouthwash, you pig.” John gave a laugh at Sherlock’s perfectly innocent expression and could only continue with great effort. “Then you’ll serve my every whim because I bloody well earned it.”

The predatory smirk on those irresistible lips tempted John to ignore his demand and proceed to the action immediately, but thankfully they formed a question.

“Anything else?”

John took a moment to deliberate. It seemed petty, unreasonable even, but why not?

“We’ll never talk about Tom again,” he said, feeling even more stupid when Sherlock first remained silent, just the typical raised eyebrow indicating a reaction.

“Jealousy,” he said after a while, and bent down to kiss his way up John’s chest and throat, stirring up an even greater urge in John to just grab the dark curls and force those soft lips on his.

“How... refreshing,” Sherlock growled. “I think now’s a good time to start deducing you again.”

 

The End


End file.
